


Apollo, Beloved

by ierohno



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Artist Grantaire, Courfeyrac being Courfeyrac, Depression, Dominant Enjolras, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, Enjolras is mean at first but this will come together, Eventual Enjolras/Grantaire, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hospitals, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, M/M, Mentions of suicide attempt, Multi, Oblivious Enjolras, Pining Grantaire, R is a beautiful soul, Sad, Slow Burn, basically R hates hospitals, one big metaphor tbh, so much gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:07:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7918111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ierohno/pseuds/ierohno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a lonely, hurting Grantaire pines after the unreachable Enjolras. </p><p>The artist and full-time skeptic may soon discover his reach is farther than he originally thought. </p><p>Also featuring Courfeyrac being Courfeyrac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> p.s. I most certainly do not own Les Misérables. Though I wish I did--here's a disclaimer!

he is faith. he is glory. he is burning, flaming passion. there are flames in his eyes, in his soul. he was crafted by gods, and perhaps was one himself. he is tragically angelic. he is sin and yet he is purity. he is the revolution. he is the spark that ignites the people, the final touch that brings something together. he captivates a room, calls attention and demands those around him to listen, to really listen. he is magnificent. he believes so much and works so hard. he wants good. 

i am doubt. i am lost. i am deep, gut wrenching disbelief. there is nothing in my eyes left to see, not much left of my mangled soul. i am a product of man, of stale wine and paint. i am human. i am demonic. i am sin and only sin. i am the embodiment of the cowardly. i am the doubtful voice in the back of one's mind. i am invisible, loud, obnoxious. i am misery, ugly. i want good, for him and only him.

i need him like humanity needs oxygen. i follow him like a sunflower follows the sun. i worship the ground he stands on. i love him. 

he despises me like a human despises a pesky bug. he ignores me as though i do not exist. he curses the ground i walk on. he hates me.


	2. R and the Taireible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire does not have a very nice day. At all. -3/10. Depictions of attempting suicide held in this chapter. If you are not comfortable with that, please don't read. I'll recap in the next chapter. Proofread by only my own eyes--please alert me about mistakes so they can be corrected!

On a scale of one to ten, Grantaire decides he would rank his day at about a -3. This is coming from the same person who once broke his arm and watched his puppy get hit by a pickup truck within two days. Then again, on some days, his luck is as bad as Bossuet’s, who literally spills something at least once a day. Poor dude. 

It wasn’t like it had started off so bad. He woke up without a hangover and actually had some motivation to roll—literally—out of bed and go do things. Albeit, those things weren’t necessarily the most productive. He showered and made himself some really sub-par toast—he keeps forgetting to buy butter—and even started one of his commissions. The world wasn’t being so hateful to him today. Usually, he woke up with very little will to live and the strong urge to stay in bed all day. Today was different, though. 

Then he actually left his apartment. Surprising, right? He took a cab to Bahorel’s place, expecting everything to go okay today. He hadn’t even touched a bottle. Usually he’d start days with the taste of wine lingering on his tongue or a metric ton of coffee. Or both. 

Then he gets into a car accident on the way there. It wasn’t like it was a big one. The car behind them rear ended the taxi and the (very) Hispanic driver decided to pull a gun and literally go loco. R was suddenly very grateful for the Spanish classes he took in college. He remembered enough to get him out of that mess. Basically, he spent twenty minutes sweet talking him and distracting him enough with his slight fluency and handy charm to get away from that trainwreck. 

So, walking the rest of the way to Bahorel’s apartment wasn’t too bad. Even if it’s freezing outside, the sun is shining and that’s plenty enough to keep him warm. He was shaky for the first bit of the walk, the reality of almost getting caught in the middle of a taxi driver angrily shooting at a fellow city resident. Admittedly, he wishes he were home, nursing a bottle of wine in his ratty apartment and watching Marvel movies. Grantaire always has a hard time getting out and about. He feels okay, sometimes, in the comfort of his little home. He’s got paintings on the walls and fairy lights and things that Jehan brings to him (and occasionally has to remind him to water.) He’s got about four cacti sitting on his front windowsill. There used to be five. No one talks about what happened to Richard. 

Now that he’s actually here, waiting on his friend’s doorstep in the cold, he really considers walking all the way back. He really does. He’d honestly rather just text Bahorel and say he has a cold or something. It wouldn’t surprise him or anything. It isn’t like Grantaire has the most outstanding immune system. 

Instead, he curses and tugs his phone out, dialing Bahorel’s number. He’s been knocking on the door for fifteen minutes now, waiting. Bahorel is not a heavy sleeper. He learned that the hard way—through the New Year’s Fiasco. Speaking of it around the Amis is like saying Voldemort at Hogwarts. Sometimes, though, Courfeyrac tries to embody Harry Potter and be fearless. He usually ends up tied to a chair. Not even in a nice way. 

Bahorel picks up about five minutes later, after three consecutive calls. 

“Christ, R, just gimme a sec,” he says. He sounds breathless. R groans. 

“Ohmyfuckinggod. You are not,” he huffs, running a hand through his hair. His life is a mess. He hears a moan through the receiver. “Jesus fuck. I’m leaving. Have fun with whoever.”

He hates when this happens, even if it’s only happened once before. Bahorel is notorious at bringing home the best. It doesn’t surprise him, really. Bahorel is pretty hot. But still. He thinks his company is a lot better than getting into some stranger’s pants. Despite this, Bahorel seems to be having fun, so who is he to stop him? 

He starts the trek home anyways. It’s just nearing one in the afternoon, the sun is high and is a welcome friend in the cold. The bits of heat it provides helps. He’s pretty sure that he would’ve frozen up and become one of those ice sculptures if it were cloudy. Even if he wouldn’t be a pretty sculpture, the icy texture would make up for it. 

About halfway he stops and considers grabbing a cup of coffee. When he digs in his pocket, he discovers that his wallet is not there. And then he remembers that it’s sitting in his sock drawer right now, like it always is when he’s home. Fuck. At least he didn’t end up having to deal with the awkward situation of forgetting your wallet and not knowing until the cab driver asks for the money. That’s a bonus. Still, he’d take that awkwardness over being in the middle of a gunfight. Even though some coffee would be really fabulous right about now. Damn Bahorel for forgetting they were supposed to play Left 4 Dead together. 

“Oh, goddamn it,” he grumbles, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets and starting to walk again. The streets are busy and crowded, which don’t really help. He’s used to the city being populated and very busy, but right now he really just wants to hide away in his apartment and stay there for like four years. It sounds appealing. He can always order pizzas. There’s tap water, and some people come and pick up paintings after they order them. He could pull it off. Maybe he’ll ask Combeferre to make him an outline of what he’d need to do to make that work. 

He’s working out the logistics of not leaving his room for a while when he’s suddenly drenched in water by a passing truck. He splutters, looking down at the puddle right off the curb to his left. It stormed the night before. Usually, he likes storms, but right now he’s positive he’d punch a raincloud in the face if he was offered the opportunity. 

“Well, fuck,” he mumbles, wiping his eyes and sighing. At this rate, his day is not going too fabulously. He’s positive this hasn’t even happened to Bossuet before.

So, he basically fucking waddles home because his jeans are chafing and that shit is not fun. Courfeyrac would call him out on plagiarizing penguin’s signature walking style and right now, he wouldn’t even feel like making a comeback about how penguins can’t copyright anything anyways. 

By the time he gets home, he’s shivering and is pretty sure he’s gonna get a killer cold from walking ten blocks drenched and freezing. Joly will probably have a heart attack, but it isn’t really his fault. Perhaps this is karma haunting him for considering lying to Bahorel about having a cold earlier

He peels himself out of his clothes and puts them in his washer, putting on some sweats and a shirt. Right when he finally sits down on his couch and begins to decide what movie to put on, his phone starts ringing. 

The caller ID says “Mothman” and he sighs. He knows what this means. Goddamn it. He’s forgetting something. 

That thought makes him pause a beat, because it hits him that the Amis only really call him when he’s forgetting something. Except for Jehan. Jehan always calls to ask if he ate that day. And Bahorel, who asks him to come over a lot. And Joly and Bossuet, who always invite him out to get cheesecake or see a B-rated movie. And Marius, who invites him and Feuilly to go see some obscure play in German at a theatre out of town. And Courfeyrac, who calls him just to talk some days, other days to ask if he wants to share takeout and binge some of their favorite series. And Combeferre, who calls him to ask how much water he’s had that day, or to talk about astronomy or discuss that new Sci-Fi movie that came out a while ago. 

Essentially, by the Amis, he means Enjolras, who only calls when he needs something. 

So, deciding not to linger on that sad thought, he answers. 

“Combefairy. How may I help you?”

“You’re gonna miss the meeting, R. The pamphlets.” 

Shit. He forgot that he promised Combeferre to be at the meeting with the pamphlets he designed earlier in the week. Thank God he finished those already. The problem is getting them there. 

“Shit. Right. Uh. I’ll be there, science dude. Don’t worry.” 

R hangs up the phone and pretty much sprints to his bedroom, changing quickly into his jeans and a sweatshirt. For once, he’s regretting buying the tightest jeans on the market. Hey, if they make his ass look good, he normally doesn’t care. 

He can already tell the Amis will be mad at him. He doesn’t care at this point. He’s had a rough day, and he didn’t realize that there would be a meeting today. Everything has been so hectic. 

So he grabs his wallet this time, as well as the pamphlets, and rushes out the door. He even takes a taxi that doesn’t get rear ended and doesn’t contain a very violent, gun-wielding Hispanic man. 

By the time he gets to the Musain, the meeting is practically over. He sighs, clutching the pamphlets close to his chest. He’s admittedly nervous, knowing what happens when he’s late to meetings. 

So, he makes his way to the back room of the café, just walking right in, sending Combeferre a sheepish smirk. 

“Delivery for Les Amis de l’ABC,” he teases, holding the pamphlets out. The chatter in the room ceases immediately, and he can feel everyone gazing at him. 

“R! We missed you,” Courfeyrac calls, grinning at him from where he perched in Combeferre’s lap. The guide shoots him a look that shuts the centre’s mouth immediately. 

Then comes the chief, descending down into his atmosphere like an avenging angel. It doesn’t matter how many times Grantaire comes to these meetings—even if he deals with their constant speak of the better, of their idealism and unrealistic hopes—he never gets used to this. Enjolras is ridiculously beautiful when he’s angry. It makes Grantaire’s knees weak. 

“Late, again?” he asks, snatching the pamphlets and looking them over. Grantaire wants to recoil, back out of the room, because Apollo’s wrath is raining down on him again, and he doesn’t know if he wants it to or not. He shines under the attention, but shrivels and crumbles with the anger and disappointment behind it. 

“Got caught up,” he shrugs, not mentioning the hell his day had been today. Bahorel shoots him an apologetic look, clearly remembering the earlier events of that day. Grantaire just winks at him, still in decent spirits. He didn’t have the heart to be angry with his friend. Even if he’d walked home and gotten drenched in dirty rainwater on the way. 

“Caught up in what, exactly? We all have responsibilities, Grantaire. We still manage to get here on time, don’t we?” he asks, passing the pamphlets to an anxious looking Joly. Grantaire nods his head slightly, crossing his arms and just taking a moment, because wow. Bullshit. The other Amis have come to meets late as well. He feels the headache he’s been waiting for all day start to attack at his temples, prodding and annoying. Apollo’s almost too-bright light isn’t helping today. 

“I had a rough day today, o shining marble man. Sorry to disappoint,” he says, and does a little bow, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. Combeferre knows something is about to go wrong, and he squeezes Courfeyrac’s shoulder: a warning. 

“Oh, really? You’re not just disappointing me, Grantaire. The others don’t appreciate this either,” he grumbles, looking angry. His eyebrows draw together and his lips form a pout and then Grantaire is aching for a paintbrush and canvas when he looks up at him. If only he could get the sun to sit directly behind Enjolras for a while. A gleam of natural light around his head would accentuate the angelic vibe he gives off even more. 

“I am? They’ve yet to say it,” he hums, crossing his arms once more. “I get it. I’m human, lowly, y’know? I can’t compete. I make mistakes. Sorry to be that way, Apollo.”  
Enjolras looks enraged. And fuck, it’s beautiful to see. His curls frame his face like a halo of honey, of curling gold. His blue eyes look almost gray in this light, dark and frothing, burning with his fury. 

“We’re not gods, Grantaire. We just try to actually do things rather than spending our lives drunk most every night.” 

Ouch. Grantaire isn’t even sure what to say to that. It’s like he’s been stabbed, somewhere deep behind his ribs, a cage around his lungs. The wound makes his lungs feel heavy and hard to breathe through, like a net is holding them in place and he can barely get them to expand past the rope weaved together. 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre hisses, looking sternly at his friend. Grantaire doesn’t blink, doesn’t even look over at him or the other Amis. His eyes are locked on the pure snapshot of a person straight out of Mount Olympus. 

“No, ‘Ferre. This is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous, huh? I haven’t been late to a meeting in months, Enjolras. I can’t always be perfect,” Grantaire drawls, tilting his head and looking straight at the leader with a challenge in his eyes. 

“You’ve never been perfect, Grantaire,” he snaps, and the whole room is frozen. The wound is suddenly burning inside his chest. “You’re useless. All we did was ask you for some pamphlets and you couldn’t even—couldn’t even manage that.”

The back room is totally silent. Grantaire just smiles, and it’s bitter and hurt, but a smile all the same. He’s suddenly Icarus again, flying way too close to the sun, way too close to his wrath. Now and then, Enjolras would roll his eyes and brush him off during meetings, but it had never been quite this bad. The headache reaches past his temples, a low thrum of pain behind his eyes with every beat of his heart. He wishes both things would stop. 

“Thank you for stating the obvious, Apollo,” is all he says, and he’s blind again, because the lights are too bright and tears are clouding his vision, and no, not here. Not in front of the man he’s longed for, ached for, for ages. Not in front of his friends. 

Jehan calls his name, and he thinks it sounds like the poet was crying. Or just emotional. He isn’t sure, and he doesn’t want to stay and find out. He spares Enjolras a single glance, and his features look surprised, almost wounded. He scoffs, because in situations like this, he’d let himself take the blame for this, for being the reason the god himself looked as though he’d been hurt by his own words. 

So, rather than facing this and facing others, or even facing himself, he turns and walks out. 

“R, wait,” Enjolras calls, and he’s sure that he imagines that. He’s sure he imagines the footsteps following him, until a hand is on his arm, holding him in place just outside the door. The skeptic turns his head, looking straight at the chief through the tears in his eyes. Enjolras has an emotion on his face that Grantaire doesn’t know how to describe. All he knows is that he doesn’t want this right now. 

“What, Enjolras? Want to call me worthless? Add to the list?” he snaps, and turns away before the leader can see the tears, before he can see any sign of weakness. He snatches his arm away, and only then notices that it’s starting to rain. Fucking great. His life is either a really fucking sad movie or just really fucking sad. Either works. Maybe he’ll turn the corner and meet his real prince charming who can woo him away from this sadness. Perhaps, rather, he’ll turn the corner and get hit by a car. Like he said, either works. 

“Grantaire!” 

He pretends he doesn’t hear a thing. Times like this, he wishes he was born a different person. He wishes he was born with the ability to block out negativity with ease. He hates that he lets these thing get under his skin and slink into his heart like little needles. He just can’t deflect it. His brain produces these thoughts so often that it isn’t hard for him to just agree. He looks in the mirror and wishes mirrors didn’t exist so he didn’t have to see. Maybe life would be easier if he didn’t have to see himself every day, didn’t have to know the reality of how much he disappoints people. 

He doesn’t even pay attention while he’s walking. No one is on the streets right now. They’re all in taxis, partying, or curled up in their homes with friends or family instead of being out in the pouring rain. 

So Grantaire is just stumbling along, shivering and pretending the tears streaming down his face are just raindrops, even if anyone that takes one look at him would know he’s crying because of the redness in his face and the sadness in his eyes. 

He trusted his feet, which was stupid of him in the first place, but actually worked out this time. He found his apartment, and unlocks the door with shaking hands, stepping inside. He’s thankful that it’s warm and it smells like coffee and laundry detergent and paint. It smells like home. But right now, not even this is a comfort to him right now. He almost laughs, thinking about how he thought today would be okay this morning. He just can’t catch a break. 

He hears his phone ringing, and thanks whatever deity that presides over them that Bahorel bought him that lifeproof case and waterproof wallet for Christmas this past year, knowing he’d run into situations like this. 

He digs both things out of his soaked sweatshirt pocket, and sees the caller ID. It’s Combeferre. He’s tempted to answer and get it out of the way. But he doesn’t want to talk, especially when he knows his voice will shake and the guide will know he’s crying. He doesn’t want pity. 

So he goes to his bedroom instead, tugging off the wet clothes that clung to his trembling frame. He doesn’t look in the mirror by his dresser. Instead, he puts on sweatpants and a t-shirt, and pads back into his living room. 

His hands are itching for something, and it’s not a pencil or paintbrush. Not right now. Jehan would smack him. 

His phone starts ringing again, and he’s sick of the sound of the ringtone he usually finds soothing. He answers, staying utterly silent. 

“’Taire,” says a voice, and it’s soft. Too soft for the person it belongs to. 

“What?” he asks, and his own voice makes him cringe. It’s weak and shaky, and even a stranger would know he’s been crying. 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras breathes. And if Grantaire were stupid, he’d think that the chief is in pain. 

“Forget about it. Doesn’t matter anyways, right?” he asks with a bitter laugh, and hangs up. He’s so sick of this. He’s sick of pulling himself together for a few months and then losing it again. He’s fed up with the empty feeling in his chest, with the sadness he feels every time he even looks in a mirror. He’s done with breathing and feeling like there is something trapping his breath inside his lungs. 

He turns his phone on silent and tosses it aside, grabbing a pad and piece of paper. He feels so, so stupid right now. It won’t matter if he writes this or not. Not at all. He feels insignificant and wishes it were easier to do this. But he’s been through this before; he knows how this goes. 

Instead of forgoing the whole leaving a note thing, he scrawls out something for the Amis, for his mother that doesn’t care. He leaves his paintings partly to Jehan, party to Feuilly. His cacti go to Combeferre, because he heard Courfeyrac pestering him about brightening up their apartment. He leaves his songs to Marius, because he wrote them in German so no one would know about the painful lyrics and chords he would sometimes pen out when his thoughts wouldn’t let him sleep. 

He puts it on the center of the coffee table by his phone and wallet, and stares at the painting propped against the wall beneath his window for a minute. He knows Jehan will be frantic by now, and hates himself for being the cause of that. But he knows this is for the better. He’s only burdening them by being here, by asking so much of them constantly.   
He holds back a sob then, thinking about the Amis inevitably moving on and forgetting he was ever a shadow in the back of the room during meetings, a bottle in hand, a sad smirk on his lips half the time, drunken teases directed at the leader in red falling from his lips. 

He can’t think anymore, can’t take the ache it leaves him with, not anymore. He’s in his bathroom before he knows what he’s doing, grabbing a bottle of pills, and then everything is a blur. He thinks that his brain doesn’t want him to process what he’s doing, because he’d stop when the pills reached his hand. He’d stop and cry and relapse and go to bed and pretend it didn’t happen. 

He’s been nothing but a mess since high school. He doesn’t even know how he handled college, really. He barely made it, but there’s a dumb, framed degree sitting in his closet somewhere that he hardly feels like he deserved. Even his heart is turning against him. It’s like his soul and body are at war about who he is and what he means.   
He remembers sinking down on the floor and bringing his legs up to his chest, his arms on his knees, head on his arms. He remembers the ache fading, a numbness filling his head. 

He hears banging on his door, and laughs, because whoever is here is way too late. At least, he hopes. 

Then there are people everywhere. Or maybe it’s only a few moving really fast. He can’t tell. There’s talking and shouting and he’s moving but it isn’t him. It takes him a few minutes to piece together that he’s being carried. He wonders why his brain didn’t know that. 

He thinks he would like to drift like this for a long time. Between life and whatever there is, no pain, no focus, no anything. Just drifting in a numbing bliss. But then, everything goes black.


End file.
